


we're alone together

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: yule gift fics [11]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Jaskier | Dandelion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Explicit Consent, First Time, Intersex, M/M, Magic, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, Shy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: It starts because of a bigoted blacksmith.Or, no.It starts because of a dirty pond somewhere on the edge of Brokilon.…exceptactually.Okay, okay; where the story really,trulystarts – that’s Posada. But for the sake ofbrevity,ofnarrative simplicity,it starts, really, truly, in a run-down three-room inn in Kerack.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: yule gift fics [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038730
Comments: 43
Kudos: 253





	we're alone together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ApricotAntlers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApricotAntlers/gifts).



> part one, because i found a GREAT place to stop, but i do eventually need to add the requested porn to this. so. that'll happen...eventually. :D
> 
> thanks so much to koda ( [stormandstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormandstarlight/works) ) for helping with some worldbuilding and ideas and titles, as usual, because xe's an absolute dear and i love xem.
> 
> this one is for kat, who is a literal angel wrapped up in the image of a modern pre-raphaelite painting and i would absolutely kill and die for them. i love you _so much,_ darling, and i hope you like the first part of this <3

It starts because of a bigoted blacksmith.

Or, no.

It starts because of a dirty pond somewhere on the edge of Brokilon.

…except _actually._

Okay, okay; where the story really, _truly_ starts – that’s Posada. But for the sake of _brevity,_ of _narrative simplicity,_ it starts, really, truly, in a run-down three-room inn in Kerack.

* * *

“Aren’t these your old stomping grounds?” Geralt asks, distractedly, pawing through one of Jaskier’s packs for – something.

Jaskier rolls his eyes heavenwards. “ _No,_ ” he says. “I was born in _Lettenhove._ ”

“Which is in Kerack. Where we are, right now.”

“ _True,_ ” Jaskier sighs, “but Lettenhove is on the coast, Geralt. We’re at the edge of Brokilon. These are _not_ my old stomping grounds. Not even a little.”

Geralt stands and quirks a brow at him. “It’s a small country,” he says, as if that explains _anything_. Jaskier sighs again.

“Geralt, have you forgotten that I’m _not_ a Witcher again?”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt snorts, gesturing at Jaskier. “Look at you.”

“I will pretend you didn’t say that,” Jaskier sniffs. “But my _point_ here – I’m _noble-born,_ Geralt. Do you really think I was ever let out of anyone’s sight long enough to make it to the _dryad-infested forest_ on the _opposite side_ of the country?”

“It’s not infested,” Geralt says, frowning slightly. “The dryads live there. And you’re an Alpha, even nobles let their Alpha children wander some.”

“ _Not_ the point, Geralt. And, again, _some_ is hardly the same thing as _the other half of the country._ ”

The Witcher gestures whatever he pulled out of Jaskier’s pack at him – a loose piece of parchment, it turns out – and turns to dig through his own things.

“Well, you can’t come with me, so you’ll have to amuse yourself for a few hours.” He pulls a threatening-looking bottle from the pack and opens it to spill some over the parchment. Jaskier watches all of this with a mix of fascination and disgust.

“In a place like _this?_ ” he finally asks. “There’s barely even a tavern, here, Geralt. What am I supposed to _do,_ hm?”

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Or care, particularly. But you can’t come with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll die,” Geralt says, matter-of-fact. His expression is serious. “The dryads are not fond of intruders. It’s dangerous enough for me to go in, and they…tolerate me. Mostly. You? Either you’ll have an arrow through your eye before you can so much as step on a twig, or they’ll kidnap you to use as a stud. And believe me, that’s not a fun job, not even for an Alpha in the prime of his life.”

Jaskier swallows heavily.

“Stay behind.”

“…okay.”

* * *

He doesn’t do that.

Of course, he _tries._ He spends a little while composing, and when the creative juice runs out, caring for his lute – it needed new strings, after all, and he takes the time to clean it, as well as buffing it with some linseed oil and wax.

But even that can only take up so much time. He wanders about the little town for a bit, considers purchasing a sad, wilting bouquet of flowers from a child because the look on her face hurts his heart, and ends up just giving her the coins instead. He finds a little bakery, and buys some bread and sweetcakes.

Once he’s eaten a late lunch and stored the bread and cakes away, though, he’s out of ideas.

He lasts fifteen minutes of boredom before he’s bounding out of the shoddy little inn towards the looming shape of Brokilon’s ancient trees.

Now, he’s not a _complete_ idiot. He makes sure that he has no weapons other than the tiny steel dagger Geralt had gifted him months ago, and he’s not carrying his lute. He’s wearing the little charm that blocks out his scent. And he’s careful, as well, to follow a path, and not step off of it.

There are no arrows whizzing past, and no movement in the trees or the bushes. He stops before the line of the forest, though, hands in clear sight, and announces, “Just looking for my Witcher.”

He waits. There’s no sound, no movement, nothing at all.

He steps into the trees.

Immediately, he feels a difference. This place – it’s _old,_ which he knew, of course, this forest predates the Conjunction by an amount of years no one except maybe the dryads know – but knowing that and _feeling_ it are two very different things. There’s magic, too, he can tell, goosebumps racing along his arms, over his neck.

It’s _fascinating._

Of course, it hadn’t really occurred to him that he wouldn’t be able to just _find_ Geralt in the forest, because the Witcher has a very faint scent even when he’s not wearing a blocker. And he always wears a blocker on any contract. Which, looking back, is a rather large oversight on his part, but – well.

He’s done stupider things and come out the other side no worse for wear, so. He follows the game path he’s been on deeper into the forest, careful to keep his trail on it and leaving nothing but his footprints, his magically blank scent. If nothing else, he’s sure _Geralt_ will be able to find _him_. He never does seem to struggle, even with the blocker.

As if that thought is a beacon, there’s a sound to his right, and a growled, “Jaskier.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps, jumping a little at the suddenness of his Witcher’s appearance. He spins around, looking to see where Geralt is – certainly, he’s somewhere near – but he’s not looking at his feet, and when his ankle hits a rock, he has no chance to right himself. “ _Ah!_ ”

He lands with a great splash into a cool, shallow pond. There’s water and moss and – who _knows_ what else all over him, and he flails to try and sit back up, sputtering.

There’s a great, exasperated sigh, and when he finally manages to wipe pond water and leaves from his eyes, Geralt is standing at the edge of the water glaring at him.

“Jaskier,” he repeats, in that same growl.

“Geralt!” Jaskier greets again, with the same amount of cheer as before. The Witcher rolls his eyes and gives another sigh, but steps into the pond – it really isn’t very deep, the water only coming up to Jaskier’s waist when he’s sitting up, about halfway up Geralt’s calves – and holds out a hand.

Jaskier grins up at him, heedless of the fact that he looks a mess, and takes his hand.

Two things happen at once: the water surrounding him goes from cool to hot, almost hot enough to scald, and there’s a flash of silver light that momentarily blinds Jaskier and leaves spots dancing in his vision.

Geralt swears in Elder, yanks Jaskier out of the pond, and swears again.

Jaskier’s a little dizzy. “Uh, Geralt,” he asks, and then realizes that they’re still holding hands. He looks down, blinking as if that would clear the spots, and sees that there’s…a tattoo. On his wrist. He gapes for a second, then squeaks, “ _Geralt?_ ”

“Fuck,” Geralt replies, and quickly unties his bracer, heedless of the way it drops into the pond. He pushes his sleeve up once it’s gone to reveal that he has a tattoo, now, too. “ _Fuck._ ”

“I – what,” Jaskier says, flatly, as he studies the lute now tattooed in intricate detail on Geralt’s wrist. To match the silver sword tattooed in equally painstaking detail on his own wrist. “What…. _Geralt._ ”

It’s not as if soulmates – and the tattoos that mark them so – are unheard of. But they’re _rare,_ and people are born with their marks. Getting a mark later in life is – well. The stuff of legends. Of _stories._

But Jaskier is staring at two brand new marks that he _knows_ neither he nor Geralt had fifteen minutes ago.

“Uh,” he says, and Geralt huffs, letting go of his hand and bending to retrieve his bracer.

“We’ll deal with this later,” he says, and sets to righting his clothing. “You’re lucky this is all that happened – I told you not to follow me, Jaskier. Now _go._ ”

“Geralt, I – ” Jaskier knows his eyes are wide and his lip is trembling, he can feel the stutter of his heart in his chest, but he can’t _control_ it, doesn’t know…. He’s suddenly _afraid._ It’s not Alpha behavior, he knows, it’s not _right,_ but – _but._ Geralt sounds angry, angrier than before the soulmarks, and….

Geralt’s expression softens, though, and he steps closer to pull Jaskier in. Their foreheads press together, a gesture of affection Jaskier learned early on is reserved, when it comes to Geralt, for very close friends and his brothers-in-arms. He relaxes minutely, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I’ll come back,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can hear the promise in the words. “But I have to finish what I’m here for, and you’re not safe in the forest. Go back to the inn, Jaskier. We’ll talk about this when I return.”

* * *

So Jaskier returns to the inn, nearly paces a hole in the floor while he waits, and then Geralt returns, contract successfully fulfilled.

They talk, and nothing much happens, really. They’re still Jaskier the Bard, the world’s most unlikely Alpha, and Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher and world’s least obvious omega. It’s just that they’re soulmates, too. No big deal, really. At least, not in the grand scheme of things – after all, soulmates doesn’t have to mean just one thing. They can figure out what it means for them.

(And if it’s not the _usual_ way…well, Jaskier just wants to have Geralt, whatever way he’s allowed.)

And all of that is _fine,_ until, of course, the bigoted blacksmith comes into the picture.

* * *

He’s a great, hulking man, face twisted into a seemingly permanent scowl and right arm knotted with scar tissue from shoulder to wrist. Jaskier hates him on sight; Geralt doesn’t seem much more endeared, but he needs his sword repaired, and he doesn’t have the materials nor the money to procure them to do it himself.

So, the blacksmith who looks like a rock troll it is.

And almost immediately, there’s a problem. Because of _course_ there is.

Jaskier isn’t wearing a blocker today; he doesn’t, usually, in public, and especially not with Geralt. The average human wouldn’t be able to smell that he’s an omega, but the blankness of him unsettles people – and with Jaskier around, people assume the smell of Alpha is Geralt, not his foppish bard.

It works out. Except when people decide that Jaskier, who is _clearly_ an omega, is easy pickings.

“What’re you doing with a nasty mutant, little omega?” the blacksmith asks, all leer despite the way his face doesn’t untwist from the scowl. He reeks enough that Jaskier almost can’t tell what his designation is, but after a moment of deep breathing – unfortunate, really – he manages to pin _beta._

Jaskier frowns. “He’s neither nasty _nor_ a mutant, good sir. He’s my…companion, that’s all. Now, he needs his sword repaired – shouldn’t you be speaking to your prospective customer?”

The blacksmith huffs, but turns back to Geralt, who is doing a remarkable job of being blank-faced considering the rage in the lines of his body.

Jaskier turns to look at some of the blacksmith’s wares for sale while he and Geralt discuss and haggle. He can hear the sneering edge in the blacksmith’s voice, knows that he’s trying to rile the Witcher up, but ignores it. Geralt can handle himself, after all.

Of course, Geralt can handle himself, but sometimes – well, sometimes Jaskier is the better option.

He hears the way the blacksmith’s tone changes, and the way Geralt responds, voice gone softer, placating. He returns to the Witcher’s side as casually as he can.

“Geralt,” he says, pleading and annoying – playing the omega to the Alpha the blacksmith thinks Geralt is. “Are we done here?”

Geralt’s eyes flick to him, a small downturn at the corner of his lip informing Jaskier that no, he’s not done, and that it’s not going well. “Jaskier,” he says, a warning in his tone, and Jaskier just whines lightly.

“Mind your place, omega,” the blacksmith says, almost a snarl, and Jaskier bristles but hides it. “Your _mutant_ here seems to think my work is worth less than what I charge for it.”

“It is,” Geralt says, even though his voice remains in that soft tone.

The blacksmith does snarl, now, and Jaskier registers that he’s moving before he even consciously notices that the blacksmith has, too. Geralt stumbles from the force of his shove thanks to the shock, and the wicked, curved dagger misses him but to tear a hole in his sleeve; the blade catches Jaskier, though, across his forearm.

He ignores it, twisting his wrist to snag the blacksmith’s, gripping it hard and yanking. He snarls right back, teeth bared, and the blacksmith immediately cowers back, clearly coming to the realization that Jaskier, despite his appearance, is an Alpha.

“That’s no way to treat customers,” Jaskier hisses, putting vicious pressure on the tendon in the blacksmith’s wrist until he drops the dagger. “And my companion is right, anyway. I’ve seen better work done by a man deaf, blind, and mostly lame.”

He shoves the blacksmith back and the man goes, stinking of fear-sweat.

“Reconsider who you threaten,” Jaskier says, clipped, and turns to Geralt, holding out a hand. “Come on.”

Geralt is gaping just slightly, and when he takes Jaskier’s hand, he’s trembling lightly. Jaskier isn’t sure _why,_ but right here is hardly the place to have that conversation; he grips Geralt’s hand tightly and pulls him out of the blacksmith’s shop, heading toward the inn they’re staying in.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We’ll have to travel to the next town for your sword. But I couldn’t just _let_ him….” He trails off, blood boiling at even the _thought_ of that horrible excuse for a human hurting Geralt, goading him into defending himself – likely so that the locals could be turned against him. “I know you don’t like it, when I – ”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, and Jaskier realizes that they’re still holding hands. Geralt squeezes his fingers. “It’s fine.”

They reach the inn they’ve rented a room at, and Jaskier turns to face the Witcher.

“I – really?” Jaskier asks, a little shocked to see Geralt looking – almost fond.

Not that Geralt _never_ looks at him fondly, of course he does, they’re friends – _soulmates –_ but usually, after a situation like that, he’d be frowning. Upset. And even aside from that, he’s usually very stoic in public, never letting anyone really see his emotions on his face.

“Yes,” Geralt assures, squeezing his fingers again. “Come on. May as well get some rest, and we can move on in the morning.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, quiet, feeling strangely warm. “Okay.”

* * *

The next morning, Jaskier wakes to find himself pinned to their shared bed by Geralt’s weight. It’s not the _first_ time this has happened, of course, they’ve shared beds for years, and since the whole soulmate thing, more often than not – but it’s still not really _normal._ If nothing else, Geralt is usually up before him.

“Geralt?” he mumbles. The Witcher makes a low, rumbling noise and nuzzles into Jaskier’s neck, taking a deep breath when his nose is pressed right against Jaskier’s scent gland.

That makes Jaskier shiver. He ignores it and brings a hand up to Geralt’s waist. He feels warmer than usual; he runs a little colder than the average man, because of the slower heartbeat, but he’s warmer than Jaskier right now. Strange.

“Geralt,” he repeats, a little louder. Geralt mumbles something unintelligible and just snuggles closer again. Jaskier chuckles, a little shocked, and wraps his arms around the Witcher. “Are you feeling alright, Geralt?”

“Hm,” Geralt mumbles. “…warm.”

“I can feel that. Witchers don’t get sick, right?”

“No.” He shifts, but doesn’t leave the circle of Jaskier’s arms, doesn’t untuck his face from Jaskier’s throat. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.”

“Better than usual.”

“…not sure if I should thank you for that one, to be honest.”

Geralt snorts softly. “Something’s different,” he says, stretching. Jaskier lets go of him to allow him the space, but he makes a little bereft noise, and he’s quick to put his arms back. “Not sure what.”

“Well that’s slightly worrisome.”

“Mm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and drags one hand up Geralt’s back to run through his hair. They’ve gotten more and more tactile since the whole soulmate thing; of course, they were both fairly tactile _before,_ but it’s a little different now. Like this – before, Geralt never would have stayed in Jaskier’s arms and let him pet at his hair. Now, it’s nothing to stay close for a little longer.

But shifting Geralt’s hair wafts his faint scent toward Jaskier’s nose, and he freezes.

“Geralt.”

“What?”

“You’re – hold on.” Jaskier shoves at Geralt until he rolls over, huffing and making an indignant noise, but Jaskier ignores that and just follows him, until he can press his nose against Geralt’s throat. Geralt goes still, then, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, eyes closed so he can focus.

It’s still there. He’s not imagining it.

“Geralt,” he says, slowly and without moving, “you smell like heat.”

“… _what?_ ”

Jaskier takes another deep, careful breath. “You smell like heat,” he repeats. “Like you’re going into heat.”

Geralt shoves him back, gentle despite the almost panicked look Jaskier finds on his face. “I don’t get heats.”

“I – wait.” Jaskier blinks. “You…don’t?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t,” he repeats. “The Trials – regular Witchers have…years, _decades_ between cycles. I went through the Trials twice, both before I would have had my first heat had I not been a Witcher initiate anywat, and….”

“And so you’re different,” Jaskier finishes. “You…how old are you, again?”

“Nearly a century,” Geralt answers, quietly.

“ _Shit,_ ” Jaskier mutters, finally sitting up properly. Geralt shifts to sit up, too, and now that Jaskier is looking at him, he can see the usual first sign; his scent glands are beginning to flush red. “A hundred years old, having your first heat. _Shit._ ”

Geralt twists his hands together, an uncharacteristic gesture of nerves. “I…what should we do?”

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Well. I guess we have to decide how you’re going to ride it out, firstly.”

Geralt blinks at him. “I…. Jaskier, I don’t – I’ve never…. This isn’t just _my_ first heat, it’s the first I’ve ever been around at all.”

“I – oh.” Jaskier swallows. “Well. There are two options, really; ride it out with no sex, or fuck to alleviate it. The first option is…harder, though it’s pretty common for first heats, since most people have their first in their mid-teens. The second option is – well, obviously the point of heats, really.”

“I’m sterile,” Geralt mutters.

“I know that,” Jaskier nods. “Doesn’t necessarily mean your body does, though. A heat is a heat is a heat.”

“I don’t….”

“It’s alright.” Jaskier reaches out to take Geralt’s hands, threading their fingers together between them. “I’m not going to go anywhere, you know. Whatever you decide, I’ll be here to help.”

“Why?”

Jaskier snorts, a little incredulous. “Geralt,” he says, scooting a little closer. He squeezes his hands. “We’re soulmates.”

“…it doesn’t have to be…like that.” Geralt’s gaze flickers to the side.

“It doesn’t,” Jaskier assures, ignoring the way his heart skips. “But I’m still your best friend, too. However you want me to help you through this – that’s what I’m going to do. And I would do it if we weren’t soulmates.”

Geralt mumbles something, clearly a response but too quiet for Jaskier to catch.

“What?” Jaskier shifts his hand, dragging his thumb over the lute on Geralt’s wrist. “I didn’t hear you, love.”

“I don’t want to ride it out without,” Geralt says, still quiet enough Jaskier has to strain. “But I don’t….”

Jaskier swallows. “If you’d like to go find another Alpha to help, I can do that, too.”

Geralt _flinches._ “No,” he says, quick and almost breathless. “I – do _you_ want that?”

“…no,” Jaskier admits softly. “I – really don’t.”

“So you’d….”

“I absolutely would, if you want it.”

“…I do.”

Jaskier tries to ignore the thrill that goes through him, the way his heart speeds up. Instead, he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. He doesn’t let go of Geralt’s hands, though, and is rewarded with both the sound of Geralt sucking in a shaky gasp and the feeling of his fingers trembling. “I’m going to kiss you,” Jaskier whispers, and all Geralt does in response is tip his head a little, making the angle easier.

It’s soft and chaste, at first, Geralt breathing out a shaky little whimper against Jaskier’s lips. All it takes to deepen it, though, is a gentle flick of tongue, and Geralt’s lips are parting on a gasp as he leans in, closer. Jaskier lets go of one of his hands just to reach up and grasp at his jaw instead, feeling the morning stubble there. Geralt gasps again, softly, at the stroking touch to his chin, behind his ear, and lists closer again.

Adjusting is a little hard, awkward when Jaskier refuses to break the kiss, but he manages to shift them around until they’re lying side by side again, and Geralt’s free hand finds its way to Jaskier’s waist. He’s slowly getting warmer, the scent of heat increasing incrementally as the minutes pass and they kiss.

Not the usual rapid drop into heat, but something Jaskier can work with, all the same.

“You’ll want out of your clothes,” he says, when their kisses finally come to an end. Geralt is panting softly, eyes wide, and Jaskier is sure that alongside the slowly-increasing scent of heat that Geralt has been _feeling_ the difference. “Come on, darling, let me.”

Slowly, carefully, he peels Geralt’s clothes away; tunic and the close-fit undershirt he’s always wearing – something about his sensitive skin – and then his soft, loose sleep pants and his small clothes, leaving him bare.

He’s stunning. That’s not news, but Jaskier never stops being knocked breathless by it.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, petting over Geralt’s thighs as he speaks, and Geralt whines softly. His legs fall to the sides, baring everything to Jaskier’s sight, and _both_ their pulses spike at it.

Jaskier’s senses aren’t nearly as acute as Geralt’s, of course not, but he’s still an Alpha.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier drags his eyes up, from the inviting spread of Geralt’s legs to his wide, dark eyes. “You too?”

“Of course, darling.” Jaskier shifts back just enough to strip himself of his own clothes, quick and efficient. When he looks back to Geralt, pushing his still sleep-fluffy hair from his eyes, the Witcher’s mouth has dropped open slightly. “Like what you see?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Geralt hisses, as if it’s painful to admit. “Fuck, come here. I’m so _hot._ ”

“It’ll just get worse, love, I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, but he presses closer as requested.

“Tell me what it’s going to be like?” Geralt asks. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, though, he’s wrapping his limbs around Jaskier and clinging, burying his face into his throat. Jaskier chuckles and wraps the arm he’s not using to hold himself up around Geralt’s back.

“I can only tell you what I know from other heats I’ve witnessed,” Jaskier says.

“And helped with,” Geralt tacks on, a strange tone to his voice. Maybe not jealousy, but certainly distaste.

“And helped with, yes,” Jaskier confirms, tipping his head to mouth gently over Geralt’s pulsing scent gland. He tastes _divine,_ even better than he smells, and Jaskier bites back a low growl. “The heat is literal, and really, that’s the worst part of it. Like a fever, but without the sick feeling, I’ve been told.”

“And it doesn’t go away?”

“Not exactly, no.” Jaskier presses kisses along Geralt’s throat, over his ear, shuddering lightly at the way Geralt’s hips are starting to rock against him – all instinctual, he’s sure. “It…lessens. With enough touch and scenting, or a knot. The heat and the delirium of it come in waves, and if the wave is – ah – sated, it abates a little for a time, until the next wave.”

“Delirium. I won’t know what’s going on?”

“Not exactly. You’ll know, you’ll just be more…base, I suppose, is the best word. Reduced closer to pure instinct, is all, and what your instinct demands then is sex. It’s why riding it out without is harder – scent and touch help tremendously, but they’re not _really_ what the body demands.”

“How long does it last?”

“It varies. Usually between two to five days, the worst of it in the middle – it’ll ramp up slowly, peak, and then slow again.” Jaskier shifts them so Geralt’s unconscious rutting will press them together properly, and Geralt gives a little cry of surprise, head tipping back as his eyes squeeze shut. “Feel good?”

“Ye-yeah,” Geralt stutters, grip on Jaskier’s body going tighter. “Bet – _oh_ – better than usual.”

“Mhm,” Jaskier confirms, licking over his scent gland again. “That’s part of it too; everything feels like so much _more._ ”

“Ah.” Geralt twists, rubbing his cock – large for an omega, something that makes Jaskier’s mouth water – more firmly against Jaskier’s belly. “What about – bites?”

“Mating bites?” Jaskier clarifies, ignoring the way his heart trips and then speeds up in his chest.

“Yeah.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and gently pries them apart, just enough so he can lean up and see Geralt’s face. His eyes are still dark, half-lidded now as he rolls his hips, and it takes a lot of willpower not to lean back down just to kiss him breathless.

“They’re not required,” Jaskier says. He wants that, of everything, to be clear – at no point does he want Geralt to feel… _obligated._ It had been something he’d been clear about with the soulmarks, too, even though it had felt…strange, to be suggesting that they didn’t have to acknowledge it. As if something inside him (his soul, though he doesn’t think about it that way, because it’s just…too much) was aware that it wouldn’t be _right_ to be apart from Geralt. “But they are common with heats, yeah.”

“Do you want to bite me?”

Jaskier chokes a little on his breath. “I – _Geralt._ ”

“Do you?”

“Do _you?_ ”

They stare at one another for a moment, and Jaskier feels – almost hysterical, really, laughter bubbling up in his chest as the tableau continues; the two of them, pressed together still at the hips where Geralt is rutting against him, talking about mating bites. Does he _want_ , of course he wants to, but it’s – they’ve barely even gone past the stage of a particularly close friendship, even with Geralt’s heat descending upon them.

“I don’t want to trap you with me,” Geralt says, sounding afraid.

Jaskier kind of wants to hear his hair out. He settles for kissing Geralt, deep and fierce and probably with too much teeth, but the Witcher groans and presses into it, so it’s probably fine.

“There’s no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with,” he murmurs, right against Geralt’s mouth, tongue flicking out to trace the bow of his top lip. “Gods, Geralt, I – we’re _soulmates._ Of course I’d be willing. Would _you?_ ”

“I’m not supposed to want things,” Geralt parrots, but it sounds weaker now than ever before. His hands are still gripping Jaskier’s shoulders bruise-tight, his legs hooked over Jaskier’s thighs.

“That’s not what I asked, Geralt.” Just a hint of _Alpha_ in his voice, that tone he never uses and never, especially with Geralt, but instead of bristling he gets a weak, almost _pained_ whimper as Geralt automatically bares this throat, eyes squeezing shut.

“I want it,” he says, like it’s being pulled out of him with a hook. “Want to be yours.”

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier purrs, a little caught up, “you already are.”


End file.
